Preferential treatment does hurt.
Jealousy swept under bedskirt.
She pinches the harp in background.
Those black and blues strings, plucked, resound.
The eldest withdraws with lone words,
Tends to the notion of firebirds.
Flames of wind, harassing, unbound.
Those black and blues strings, plucked, resound.
Not love, nonetheless - of first things.
Very little under her wings.
Harping and lost, in tears she drowned.
Those black and blues strings, plucked, resound.
Carried on military style,
Untucked blouse, fell in love meanwhile.
Innocence of strumming, compound.
Those black and blues strings, plucked, resound.
Existence - inky endeavor;
Playing this life of whenever.
An angel’s heartbreak is profound.
Those black and blues strings, plucked, resound.
A molt of starlight on new snow
white slough over black drenched fields.
A window captures it all as a freeze-frame.
Glass reflects and takes my picture
through an eyeless lens.
Behind me, a log fire cracks and chirps
in the language of firebirds.
The room chirrs warmly like a fiddle in a ghost camp.
The cabins foundations are structured hollows.
it breaths through its long bones.
I turn to look at where I live, see only the past looking back,
I dwell within a camera.
Across the night
the shimmering molt of the stars,
a wane moon sweeping snow
over the black drenched cars, and all unwinding
into cisterns of darkness.
The chill windowpane captures them all,
all snow-chained together
in one paused freeze-frame of a rivering.
Logs crack and chirp as if birthing firebirds.
The room chirrs like a camp fiddle in a ghost tale.
The cabin rolls,
its foundations are structured hollows.
Tonight is caught travelling nowhere.
In these unanchored times, it is a home
lost in long darkened mountains,
beyond the reach of any log-raft;
trapped by the felled and still falling.
Yet this I know,
tomorrow will arrive
and its light will be as new as God’s first born.
We bite the dust every morning,
spitting gray powder, like desperados.
Firebirds nosedive in forewarning,
perverting the trees into hell’s tornadoes.
We taste sooted smog on our tacky tongues,
dragging all our shadows of remorse.
Finding no habitat for our wheezing lungs,
we long for the rain’s fecund watercourse.
We find Death Valley spreading like a contagion,
and dodge parched patches, bruised and baked by sol.
So delirious our meandering, we know not our region,
our infernal night camps reek of cinder and wood coal.
We chant, not knowing the meaning of an arcane lyric,
unsure how to summon the recondite eidolon of Seth.
As city shells smolder, all chronic hearts await some mantic.
Surely hell will freeze over, so we wait with bated breath.
Sinful Rusted Red Firebird
Sometimes I think back to those years
I wish I had been just a bit older
Nobody notices a fourteen year old boy
Funny though, I noticed everything
Under her paisley top she didn't wear a bra
Long blond hair flowing out the car window
Robert took her for a drive in his 68 Firebird
Undressed her right there in the back of the car
Silly giggling sounds from behind fogged windows
The thought of the two of them was exciting
Everything seemed much more vivid back then
Don't know if anything has ever felt so intense again
Robert was the cool one back in those days
Easy good looks and of course that car
Dangerous he was, in a James Dean sorta way
Firebirds still evoke sexy images for me
I bought this rusted piece of junk just to restore it
Rusted sure, but when I'm done it will be cherry red
Eleven years I've owned this busted old car
But it seems like it will never really be mine
I sit in it sometimes and imagine I'm with her
Running my hands through her gorgeous blonde hair
Don't judge me, I know it's just a silly boyhood fantasy.
Sorry Casarah, I can't bold on my IPad.
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